Nothing is a memory jogger like Worcestershire sauce on a hard-boiled egg and, oh, what a whiff it was: remembrances of childhood and Easter Sundays and the time I farted while gagging after I’d shoved too many eggs into my mouth. Farting, in my family, meant that your moment of flatulence would become a family artifact.
Years later, they would tell about how I once farted wearing my Halloween clown mask and costume and, hence, was dubbed Stinky the Clown, The Clown Who Burned a Hole In His Clownsuit.
Or the tales of being teased because the pants I wore as a five year old had the Disney-owned Winnie-the-Pooh printed on inside waist meant that I had “Pooh in your pants.” Memory swings to memory like a monkey swinging through the trees, as my brothers would chase me around the house singing “Pooh in your pants! Pooh in your pants!”
It’s probably why I don’t like scatalogical humor.
Or fart jokes.